Rajkumar

By Debashree Dattaray

Once upon a time there was a rajkumar.

Rajkumar? You mean a prince? Not a king and a queen?

Nope. Just a rajkumar.

Interesting…what next?

So, as I was saying, once upon a time, there was a rajkumar. His looks? Well, sturdily built with a sunburnt face sporting a perennial stub, salt and pepper hair, dressed in a not-so-clean half dhoti and kurta, instead of armour, aluminium cans of various sizes dangling by his sides, a worn-out all-purpose pale reddish handloom towel on his shoulder, a busy air around him—that’s the rajkumar. Rajkumar doodhwala…

A doodhwala? Instead of hunting lions or tigers, milking cows? He is your story? How weird that you remember him now on this sunny afternoon in Amsterdam? Is it the milkshake that we are sipping?

Perhaps. Perhaps those were sunny days as well! I really know not. Rajkumar Yadav, our milkman, delivering milk 365 days a year without fail for more than two decades.

A Yadav, you said? Surely must have been a fan of Laluji…I swear!

You can say that again! He was keenly aware of his “kinship” to the then chief minister. And that again reminds me about seeing him at times with the worn-out towel, usually placed on his shoulder, tied around his head like a turban instead.

Perhaps it’s for heat or rain? Haven’t ever seen a milkman with an umbrella.

Take it from me. Did you know that the death of any member in the community called for a customary mundan as a mark of solidarity?

Never ever knew. Did he too pass away after twenty years?

Hey! Don’t kill him right away, please. It’s my story, you see, how to end if the hero is no more?

No heroine? Story of a male chauvinist, eh?

That’s up to you to decide, dear. But let my hero live a bit longer.

Haha, very true. Long live Rajkumar, happily feeding milk to Lord Ganesha, Shiva or whomever he wishes!

Arrey, you remember that? It’s still so vivid, just like flashback scenes—there he was squatting on the floor and animatedly explaining something to Ma and I happened to return from school.

“There you are bitiya. See, Memsaab does not believe me, not willing to listen to anything…not taking my words seriously.”

Smiling mischievously, I just switched on the TV. My school had already made me wiser.

Rajkumar almost jumped up, “There! There! Gajab ho gaya! Now you believe me, Memsaab! See for yourself!”

Yes, the city went dry…no milk even for the children, patients…

True. That day we too had to go without. As a matter of fact, Rajkumar informed us that he was forced to sell out all the milk to people who were not his regular customers and that too at a premium. How could he let go such a golden opportunity?

Hmm, must have been quite energetic!

You see, his entire life had been built on faith, his devout belief in the goodness of man. This very same spirit had prompted him to leave his village in Bihar in search of a livelihood in the nearest metropolis. Gradually, he had strengthened his trade endearing himself to the ladies of the locality with his man of the world charm and broken Bengali.

Ahem, a prince charming indeed.

 

He first came to us on a winter morning, already the proud owner of a herd of cows and buffaloes living a happy life in the neighbouring khatal with other members of his community. He was the sole breadwinner in a family consisting of his mataji, his pariwar and four sons living in their ancestral village in Ara zila. There, he owned a few acres of land for “kheti-baari”, makai and gehu being the chief harvest.

Did his family have any relation with any kind of royal family? Ma’s imagination had gone haywire and of course, there was no defined answer from Rajkumar. His attitude was—what’s in a name!

And his wife’s name? Not Rajkumari, I hope?

Aha, never uttered her name! Or perhaps, he was being bashful whenever he was asked. But you just see his amazing sagacity when it was time to choose names for his sons.

The eldest was christened Hakim—a venerable judge. The one that followed was named Majitor after District Magistrate, while the third son was called Depty after Deputy Collector—crucial administrators in the Indian bureaucracy. For the fourth son, Rajkumar took resort in a remnant from India’s colonial past and decided to call him Zamindar.

And you say it is sagacity? Why such strange names? After all, he had four sons one after another—he could have used Ram and company, couldn’t he? And what if one or two of them were daughters? What could have been their names, tell me?

How thoughtful of you! We didn’t go that far. These four names were enough to leave my mother dumbfounded. “Why would you choose such names? Do you know anyone in such professions? Or did someone suggest the names for your sons?”

“Arrey Memsaab, neither am I a criminal nor have I ever achieved anything great to be summoned in front of such great people. So I thought of naming my sons after them. Who knows, god willing, at least one of them lives up to his name!”

What sort of gratification!

Not so, actually. It’s not unnatural for someone without any basic education to consider it top priority for his sons. Eldest son Hakim turned out to be a school dropout. What now? Rajkumar was left with no choice but to make this errant son his apprentice in the milk trade. He never ever wanted this to happen. Can you feel his anguish?

That’s true. True for all parents, I believe. I can also assume that your Ma became his local guardian, right?

Absolutely correct! And, in reciprocation, Rajkumar took it upon himself to be my unsolicited bodyguard. There was pretty much little I could do without his knowledge. Whenever or wherever I ventured into the neighbourhood – to the sweetmeat shop, the local stationery or on my way to school –Rajkumar thought it was his moral duty to keep a tab on my movements. For me, at times, it was an onerous burden to meet his standards for immaculate behaviour. Can you imagine how irritating that could be?

Surely, that’s carrying things too far. Seems, he took his responsibilities quite seriously.

Just incredibly! So much so that when I went to the ninth standard, he was the one to fix my Hindi tutor.

What? Your milk man fixing your tutor? Hey…sometimes I feel such lazy afternoons in the land of windmills can be quite intoxicating, even with a glass of milk. Why not go for another round? Cheers, Rajkumar! So you were saying?

 

Ma confided in Rajkumar. “It seems your bitiya is having trouble with Hindi. What to do?”

“Hai hai, Memsaab! You should have told me that much earlier! Why not ask Masterji?”

“Who’s Masterji?”

“Why, he is a big pundit! He helps us write our money orders and our letters! Let me—”

Before Ma could utter a syllable, Rajkumar was gone in a jiffy as if he expected to find Masterji waiting at the street corner. Sure enough, within an hour, a beaming Rajkumar was back but not alone.

“Ha! Found him at the Police Station. I knew it.”

“Police Station? Why?” Ma went pale. Her polite namaste to the newcomer could not hide her obvious discomfort.

“Arrey, Memsaab, you know nothing! Masterji writes letters for the havildars there. Everyone knows him. He teaches at high school, don’t forget that! Any problem, just tell Masterji. Nothing to be afraid of.”

Masterji was duly appointed as my Hindi tutor. Much to my chagrin, Rajkumar now felt morally obliged to mark my progress in Hindi like a formidable drill master! My school life, with its usual ups and downs, was always subject to his silent and sometimes not-so-silent scrutiny.

Is this a happily ever after story then? No twists and turns? No fighting, no wars?

Calamity is around the corner, just you wait! Word came from home, the second son Majitor was seriously ill. A distraught Rajkumar bid a hurried farewell and returned home. Hakim substituted for him for the time being.

Within a couple of weeks, he was back at our doorstep. A distinctly edgy young lad by his side.

“Memsaab! I have brought him to you. Only you can do justice,” demanded Rajkumar, his moustache bristling in righteous indignation.

Ma was speechless.

“Leaving everything here, I rushed home and do you know what I found? Every evening, sahib returned home late from school, babbling gibberish all his way and then to fall flat wherever he could! You should have seen my Mataji’s hue and cry! She believed that a ghost entered him.”

“Ghossst!” Ma whispered as if she had heard the word for the first time.

“You hear me, Memsaab. After I reached, Mataji commanded me to summon the village ojha. Ghost? My foot! It was country liquor! His Highness had developed the habit of visiting the local liquor shop! No will to study but all will to drink!”

Now with your Ma in charge of the boys, all was well again. Wasn’t it?

How could it be if one of them absconds?

Oh god! Who was it?

 

Hakim, and that too for more than four months. Throughout these months, Rajkumar would come to deliver milk and leave without a single word. No more cheerful, no more enquiries about my studies. It was almost after four or five months that it arrived—not Hakim, but the news.

How kind of Hakimsaab!

Hakim called up his father from Punjab. As a concerned son, he did not want to leave his father in the lurch without a helping hand. Once Majitor joined them, Hakim started to explore his options. His friendship with long distance truck drivers at a local petrol pump station paid him a dividend. He preferred being apprentice to one of them there. Perhaps the money he had acquired during these few months supplied him the confidence to contact his father at last.

A relieved Rajkumar was proud of his truant son.

“Just see,” he confided in Ma. “Agra, Kanpur, Ludhiana, Lucknow, even Patna—he has gone everywhere…I knew he would live up to his name! What more may a father ask of his son!”

Prodigal son of a prodigal father?

Seems so. Money orders from Hakim followed soon. By then, he was a full-fledged driver himself planning to buy a truck of his own. And why not! After all, hadn’t he seen his father buy cows one after another? A born entrepreneur himself, Rajkumar sent Majitor to Ludhiana. Majitor followed his brother’s footsteps with equal gusto. Rajkumar was glad. But…yet there was a but. “But only if they had earned a little more education! Could have written their money orders themselves! Who knows if there’s a good Masterji in Ludhiana! Earning money alone doesn’t help, does it Memsaab?”

What a stark realisation! That too coming from such a…wonder!

Even I wonder now. Then, of course I was not all that grown up to fathom his philosophy, you see.

Naturally. And, then, as they say, all lived happily ever after?

 

A born optimist you are dear, as Rajkumar was a born entrepreneur…haha. About a year passed by without much hassle. Meanwhile, I had passed my Class X board exam. Rajkumar was happy with my Hindi marks. Masterji too was pleased with my performance and the box of sweets.

Rajkumar’s daily chitchat with Ma centred on the adventures of his two sons. His sense of geography never matched the atlas. Yet Ma was never tired of listening and explaining, though in vain, that it was rather an uphill task for Hakim or Majitor to reach Amreeka driving their truck!

Rajkumar living the American dream, eh?

Quite the contrary! Then, it was time for Rajkumar. Time to take a decision. Hadn’t his sons inherited the blood of adventure flowing through his veins?

“Memsaab. I am leaving.”

Ma was all cool. “Going to Ludhiana?”

“Ludhiana is not the place for me. Why should I not be straight with you? You know everything, Memsaab. You see, two of my sons are earning. Depty and Zamindar are in school. I want them to complete their school education. If I am with them, they would have to study. Maybe they can become like Masterji and teach me to read and write a bit! Didn’t I tell you money alone is not enough? I have asked my nephew to deliver milk to you as long as you wish! So I am going back. Back to my fields.”

A Gandhian in disguise?

Hmm, a practical man he was! Perhaps the city had taught him the relevance of education and he was going back with the quest for his two younger sons.

Wish I could have met him. It must have been difficult to say goodbye?

“Bitiya, be good. Study well. Make us proud.” Any other time, such a sermon would have been maddening, but then, for me on one side it was like “good riddance” and on the other I felt a bit sad, you may say.

True to his word, he stopped delivering milk, started collecting his dues. His nephew replaced him for those who wanted. He was gone from our lives. It was never the quality of the milk that was important, you see, but the man.

Ah, it’s the man who made all the difference? Someone who was not a Mungerilal, yet wanted his life to be all haseen sapney!

There you are! Did I ever know that I would be sipping milkshake at this café thousands of miles away from home, and yet somehow feel his watchful eyes, demanding immaculate behaviour and a spirited zeal for life as it comes? I could never let him down, could I?